


Turning Tables

by days4daisy



Category: Leverage
Genre: Alcohol, Episode: s01e13 The Second David Job, M/M, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 12:34:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4960825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Piss off," Jim grumbles. "Don't you have anywhere better to be?"</p>
<p>A patient smile. "Thought you said we were friends, Sterling." Nate sets a hand on Jim's leg.</p>
<p>--<br/>Takes place during "The Second David Job."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turning Tables

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a very recent fan of this show. Still working my way through it, but I was stunned by the lack of fic for this ship! Had to try my hand at a little something for them ^_^

The security cameras are off. Jim remembers when the door to his office opens and Nathan Ford lets himself in. In his black t-shirt, no doubt owned for double-digit years. Hair a shaggy mess, smug grin on his face.

Jim would usually welcome the intrusion, though he's loathe to admit it. Nate has a way of making things interesting, for better or worse. He's a challenge as friend, foe, or whatever they are when they stumble between those lines. ...Stupid thoughts, helped along by the scotch in Jim's system.

Herein lies tonight's quandary. Even thirty seconds of verbal sparring with Nathan Ford requires the utmost attention. Alertness for every play on words, every shift of the eyes or tilt of the head.

Jim thrives on these meetings, when he's up for them. But the day has spent just about all his good will. Not for naught, of course. Blackpoole is out, and an art collection worth $150 million is waiting in the loading docks. 

But Jim has spent his evening on the phone with the Board of Directors. The Board are a cheery bunch. Haughty, snide, prone to threats and other niceties. If Jim had a dollar for every time he's been called a limey bastard in the past two hours, well, he'd be better off than he is now. Which is still pretty well-off, especially with the assurance that his own lofty job is secure.

Jim doesn't mind a bit of humbling in exhange. He's keeping his job and his cushy new office. No, his sour mood is a product of the ruse itself. That even his own arrogance would be used against him, while his con ex-partner walks free.

That con ex-partner is using this freedom to troll him, apparently. The security cameras are off, and Jim is not in the mood. He keeps his feet propped on the edge of his desk. Has a sip of his half-drained tumbler of scotch.

"This a celebration, Sterling?"

"I'd call it a bittersweet libation." Jim nods towards the mini-bar next to the door. "Help yourself. Not that you ever need permission to indulge."

"No."

Jim cocks his head. "Seriously?"

Nate doesn't respond. Doesn't need to.

Jim chuckles. He shouldn't be surprised, but, "I see. You're above Blackpoole, above the law. Why wouldn't you be better than drinking with an old friend-"

"We were never friends, Sterling."

"So you've said." Jim chuckles and allows himself another swallow.

Nathan snatches the glass from his hand. Jim curses and tries to grab it back, but Nathan crosses to the mini-bar before he can. He refills the glass without comment.

The refreshed tumbler is dangled over Jim like a carrot. Pompous ass.  Jim snatches it.

Nathan's back is turned before Jim can properly evil-eye him. He stands before the windows. A panorama of the city lights at night.

Jim swivels in his chair, turning to watch him. He holds his glass against the stomach of his shirt

"Might want to look into those security cameras," Nate suggests.

Jim rolls his eyes. "Authorities are clearing that chemical weapon scare. Unsafe work environment. Thanks for that."

Nate smiles. "But you're still here. Awful brave of you, Sterling."

Jim mock-toasts him. "No sense wasting I.Y.S. funds on electricity when no one's allowed in to watch the damn cameras." He waves a hand, a silent salute to the unlit office.

It's a lazy excuse, though. One followed by a swallow and a cringe. He is pushing beyond his usual, already robust pace of imbibing. Not wise at all. Especially in present company. Over-indulgence is Ford's shtick, one Jim quite delights in taunting him about.

Nate hums under his breath. "You knew I'd visit. Didn't want to answer to the Board if they found out. Not thirty minutes after Blackpoole got the boot."

"I don't need the Board knowing that their gallery's paintings-"

"Insured for $150 million-"

"-never left the bloody building!"

If it surprises Nate that Jim's figured it out, he doesn't let on. "You lost $150 million of art in your own house, Sterling?" Nate tsks. "Impressive, even for you-"

"You moved them under the display room somehow," Jim mutters. "The sarcophagus was a decoy. It wasn't the mummy, it was what was behind it."

Nate shrugs. "Any property damaged during today's heist has been restored to its previous condition."

Jim shakes his head. But he isn't surprised, is he? He's known for months what Nathan Ford has become. But it's something else entirely to see the con-man in full glory. 

That business with Baltimore was cute. Chance for Nate to stick his old partner. Working with a team of criminals, adorable. But targeting I.Y.S. ... nailing _Blackpoole_ , of all people.

Jim opens his mouth to speak, but all he can manage is a scoff and more scotch.

"What?"

Jim chuckles bitterly. "Funny how much can change in a few years."

"Funny how much stays the same," Nate replies. He leans on Jim's desk, his back inches from Jim's crossed feet. Jim tilts his head, evaluating him. 

After a moment, he downs the rest of his glass. A more noticeable grimace now.

Jim sets his empty glass on the desk. They both look at it. "You hated Blackpoole," Nate says. "You wanted him out."

Jim sighs. "Got a recorder on you again, Nate? One of those fancy Hardison ear buds?"

Nate regards him with pity. "You're slurring," he says.

"Piss off," Jim grumbles. "Don't you have anywhere better to be?"

A patient smile. "Thought you said we were friends, Sterling." Nate sets a hand on Jim's leg.

Jim mutters a laugh. He's far too done for this, and nudges Nate's back with his foot to tell him so. Nate shrugs, playing unaware, and slides his hand under the bottom of Jim's slacks.

"Christ," Jim mumbles. He eyes the empty glass forlornly.

Nate looks at it too, but he does not do anything about it. Instead, he stretches higher, fingers digging into Jim's knee.

Jim angles his foot to kick Nate again, hard enough this time to make him grunt. It's both warning and invitation, and it only succeeds in Jim's shoes being knocked off. His socked toes wiggle helplessly.

He has no recourse against Nate's hand this time, cupping the inside of his thigh. 

Jim's traitorous legs uncross.  He scowls at his empty glass. "Not good enough to fuck me over figuratively, then?"

"Today was a good day, Jim," Nate says. "For both of us."

"There is no 'us,'" Jim mutters. "No one's above the law, Nate."

Nate tilts his head as if pondering the idea.

His contemplation leads him to push off the desk. In one swift motion, he's plucked Jim's empty glass from the table and carried it to the mini-bar for another fill up.

Jim eyes the liquor upon its return. "What are you playing at?" Ford's always playing at something.

Jim would catch on quickly, if it weren't for the warmth currently sitting low in his belly. A dangerous cotton haze has settled between his temples. None of this is good. Ford's mind is a puzzle, even for a sober, not-horny brain.

Nate's intentions becomes clearer when he pushes one of Jim's legs off the desk. One foot on, one foot off, legs spread about as wide as his slacks will arrow. No, not good...

Nate resumes his previous position, leaning back on the desk. But closer this time, high enough to brace a hand in the middle of Jim's thigh. His fingers hook into the inside seam.

Jim smirks. This is a terrible idea, on an already awful day of embarrassment and self-compromise. But as he's already been accused of being a self-serving, utter bastard...

Jim tips his glass in a toast and tosses back a swallow. One he almost chokes on when Nate's hand shifts up his leg. Against Jim's better judgment, he opens them wider. Another swallow of his drink smothers less-becoming noises.

"So, what's the con this time?" Jim wonders. "Are you the bait again?"

"Might be," Nate says. "Not my fault someone left the cameras off."

He plants a foot on Jim's chair, between his stretched legs. The tip of his shoe wedges against Jim's crotch.

Jim doesn't need any help in this department, thanks. He jerks upright in his seat, means to ease himself off the pressure, of course. Not grind himself on that round nub. Not feel it, hard, pushing up on the arousal already forming in his slacks.

Nate looks like the cat that swallowed the canary. This won't do at all.

Jim places his glass down and shoves Nate off. This is becoming too much. He sets both feet on the ground, more stable footing. Only to wind up with Nate's knee between his legs. Jim grunts before he can stop himself. Shit.

Jim grips his waist for balance. "You're just a common criminal, Na-mmph." Nate pushes a hand over his mouth before he can finish.

Jim grumbles his irritation and digs his hands under Nate's awful black t-shirt. His fingers comb up Nate's sides. Softer than the last time they stumbled into this situation. But still unmistakably Nathan Ford. For one terrible second, Jim feels...nostalgic?

Nate mutters "Terrible shirt," breaking the moment as he breaks buttons.

Jim tries to bark his protest, twisting under Nate's hand. "You're giving _me_ grief abou-mmph!" Nate's hand again.

This time, Jim bites.  Bruised fingers don't make Nate move, though. They make him push down harder.

Jim rolls back in his seat, sending Nate off balance, which lets Jim rip his belt off without a fight. He gets Nate's pants open too.

Nate knee finds its way between Jim's legs again. Harder this time, grinding into his erection. Jim's breath whooshes out. The chafing is getting painful, which Nate no doubt knows. It's probably behind the little smirk on his face. Ass.

It takes a moment for Jim to regain his bearings. When he does, he scowls under Nate's obnoxious hand, a little slow, a little drunk. He's fed up with this, opens his mouth and drags his tongue up Nate's fingers. He tastes like salt. 

Jim grins wide when he's released, right into Nate's disapproving frown. He's still grinning when Nate pulls his shirt from his pants, half-undone.

Jim moves a hand between the open flaps of Nate's zipper, gratified by the firmness there. He gets a grunt and a shift, and Nate's tongue-wet hand scrubbing through his hair. Making a mess of everything, per usual.

Again, Jim hears warning bells. But he does not heed them, too sex-warmed and under-touched. It's been an awfully long time since he's had a wank. And an extra long time since that shag was with Nathan Ford. 

As compromised as this makes Jim - really, what are the chances Nate would go this far for a con? Think of the look on Eliot Spencer's face, were he to learn he and Nate were in flagrante... Jim snickers at the image, head tipping back against his chair. "Like the good ol' days, eh Ford-"

"There were no good old days," Nate mutters. "Get up."

Jim offers a bemused smile, but he stands up regardless. It reminds him that his shoes have gone missing thanks to this lovely prick. Damned Ford better not have scuffed them...

Speaking of pricks. Jim stuffs a hand down Nate's pants, fingers around the outline of arousal in Nate's shorts. Nate grits his teeth, stoic, getting himself into Jim's pants in return. He looks quite cross about this whole situation. Funny. He started it.

Jim slips his hand under Nate's underwear. He manages a squeeze before Nate shoves him back on the desk. Jim hisses when he hits the wood edge. Being manhandled is embarrassing, in his socks no less! But he's distracted by Nate squeezing fists of his shirt. Yes, the red paisley one he claims to hate so much.

Jim starts to say something, but he's cut off by Nate's mouth. Hard, prying lips opening his. A rough hand grabs Jim's jaw, shoves Jim's head back the way he wants it. Jim is _not_ ok with this. He plans to tell Nate this, as soon as he can free their mouths from each other. Blasted Nate. It's getting hard to concentrate!

Jim hooks a hand on Nate's pants and forces their bodies together. Not wise, on one hand. The added weight pushes Jim back harder on the desk. The wooden corner is sharp on him, a flash of pain through his back.

On the other hand, Nate's cock is hard in his briefs, thick against Jim's own. This is far more agreeable. Jim groans. He tries not to think of the bruises he'll have in the morning, or how swollen and pathetic his mouth will look.

"Thought you were off the sauce," Jim remarks. Nate's tasting an awful lot of him for someone who's off alcohol. 

Not that Jim is complaining. Nate's mouth is wet and red. Looks utterly sinful. Jim licks his own sore lips.

"Fuck you, Sterling," Nate says. He shoves Jim's pants and underwear down, both bunching at Jim's knees. Well, isn't this lovely.

Jim goes to do the same, only to wind up with Nate's still clothed body on his own.

Jim curses and moves. The friction is good but unbecoming. He starts again on Nate's pants, but teeth on his jaw make him lose his train of thought. A sharp bite, and a hissed "ah!" Teeth trail down the side of his neck. Bruising, yes, definitely hickey territory, damn him. Too high for Jim's shirt collar to cover.

"Watch it," Jim grumbles. "You still need me to sell the Blackpoole deal."

Nate raises his eyebrows. "You better than this, Sterling?"

Jim scowls. Nate is the worst type of asshole, the one who knows and loves it. Nate grinds his leg up again to prove it.

The worst part is that Jim can't even fake anger. He wants this, he has no damn leverage!

What a terrible thought, right before Nate's hand flattens on his belly. He takes his bloody time easing it down, the sod. By the time Nate's fingers wrap around his cock, Jim is about ready to throttle him. Crook. No better than the low-life lot he's strapped himself to.

But Nate gives him a hard jerk, and Jim groans instead. The sound turns into a strained little laugh.

"What's so funny?" Nate asks.

"You," Jim breathes, "cannot resist me, no matter how hard you try." He lights like Christmas. "Talk about leverage."  Nate's glare is photo-worthy.

No doubt, he'll do something for payback. Strand Jim in his office after this rendezvous, locked to his chair? Steal his car keys? His house keys?

But finally, Jim has the upper hand again. And he plans to savor every last drop of it.

*The End*

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm also on [Tumblr](http://daisy4days.tumblr.com).


End file.
